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THUS all things lead to Charity, secured
By THEM who blessed the soft and happy gale
That landward urged the great Deliverer's sail,
Till in the sunny bay his fleet was moored!
Propitious hour! had we, like them, endured
Sore stress of apprehension,* with a mind
Sickened by injuries, dreading worse designed,
From month to month trembling and unassured,
How had we then rejoiced! But we have felt,
As a loved substance, their futurity:

Good, which they dared not hope for, we have seen;
A State whose generous will through earth is dealt;
A State, which, balancing herself between
License and slavish order, dares be free.



BUT liberty, and triumphs on the Main,
And laurelled armies, not to be withstood,
What serve they? if, on transitory good
Intent, and sedulous of abject gain,
The State (ah, surely not preserved in vain !)

* See Note.

Forbear to shape due channels which the Flood Of sacred truth may enter, till it brood

O'er the wide realm, as o'er the Egyptian plain The all-sustaining Nile. No more,

the time Is conscious of her want; through England's bounds, In rival haste, the wished-for Temples rise!

I hear their Sabbath bells' harmonious chime

Float on the breeze, the heavenliest of all sounds

That vale or hill prolongs or multiplies !



BE this the chosen site; the virgin sod,
Moistened from age to age by dewy eve,
Shall disappear, and grateful earth receive
The corner-stone from hands that build to God.
Yon reverend hawthorns, hardened to the rod
Of winter storms, yet budding cheerfully,
Those forest oaks of Druid memory,

Shall long survive, to shelter the Abode

Of genuine Faith. Where, haply, 'mid this band
Of daisies, shepherds sat of yore and wove
May-garlands, there let the holy altar stand
For kneeling adoration; while, above,
Broods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove,
That shall protect from blasphemy the Land.

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MINE ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued,
Sharing the strong emotion of the crowd,
When each pale brow to dread hosannas bowed
While clouds of incense mounting veiled the rood,
That glimmered like a pine-tree dimly viewed
Through Alpine vapors. Such appalling rite
Our Church prepares not, trusting to the might
Of simple truth with grace divine imbued;
Yet will we not conceal the precious Cross,
Like men ashamed: the Sun with his first smile
Shall greet that symbol crowning the low Pile:
And the fresh air of incense-breathing morn
Shall wooingly embrace it; and green moss
Creep round its arms through centuries unborn.



THE encircling ground, in native turf arrayed,
Is now by solemn consecration given

To social interests, and to favoring Heaven,
And where the rugged colts their gambols played,
And wild deer bounded through the forest glade,
Unchecked as when by merry Outlaw driven,
Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and even,

And soon, full soon, the lonely Sexton's spade
Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture small,
But infinite its grasp of weal and woe!
Hopes, fears, in never-ending ebb and flow ;-
The spousal trembling, and the "dust to dust,"
The prayers, the contrite struggle, and the trust
That to the Almighty Father looks through all.



OPEN your gates, ye everlasting Piles!
Types of the spiritual Church which God hath

Not loth we quit the newly-hallowed sward
And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles
To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles,
Or down the nave to pace in motion slow;
Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower grow
And mount, at every step, with living wiles

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- to rouse the heart and lead the will By a bright ladder to the world above. Open your gates, ye Monuments of love

Divine! thou, Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill!

Thou, stately York! and ye, whose splendors


Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear!



TAX not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who plannedAlbeit laboring for a scanty band

Of white-robed Scholars only this immense

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And glorious Work of fine intelligence!

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely-calculated less or more;

So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering, and wandering on as loth to die;
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality.



WHAT awful perspective! while from our sight With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers,


In the soft checkerings of a sleepy light.

Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite,

Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen,

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